Wrongly Accused

Chapter 49

The aroma of khichdi filled the penthouse, its warmth a fleeting contrast to the biting chill of the high altitude air. I stirred the pot, the wooden spoon scraping softly against the metal, each motion a desperate anchor to a reality crumbling under the weight of my guilt. My eyes drifted to the hallway leading to Amaira's room, a ritual born of longing and dread. Each glance carried a silent prayer that today her gaze might hold something other than hatred, that the crushing burden of her pain might lift, even just a fraction.

The past week had been a relentless crucible, emotional, mental, physical. Every moment stretched into an eternity, each second laden with the consequences of my mistakes. Winning back Amaira's trust was a mountain too steep to climb, and forgiveness was a distant star, glimmering beyond my reach. Yet I had to try. I had to grovel, bleed, suffer, whatever it took to make amends. I was the reason she was here, trapped in this sterile prison, her life shattered by my choices, her freedom stolen by my actions.

Groveling was not merely leaving plates of food outside her door or whispering apologies into the void. It was a searing torment, a daily crucifixion that tore at my soul. It was hearing her cries echo through the walls, each sob a testament to the suffocation of her confinement, a wound I had inflicted with my own hands. It was facing her eyes, blazing with hate and anger, whenever I dared to speak, her silence a blade that cut deeper than any curse. I stayed, enduring the rejection, the self loathing, the unbearable weight of her pain, praying for the day she would scream, lash out, do anything to show I still existed in her world. Because if she erased me completely, that would be my true death, a fate worse than any physical end.

Five nights ago, I had stood outside her door, the sound of her sobs seeping through the wood like a poison that burned my heart. I pressed my forehead against the cold frame, my voice barely a whisper. "Amaira, I'm sorry. I know you do not want to see me at all, but I want to at least explain - " The crying stopped, replaced by a chilling silence that stretched for agonizing seconds. Then her voice came, sharp and venomous, "You're the reason I'm locked in this cage, Suhail. You're my prison." Her words sliced through me, each one a fresh wound, her anguish a mirror to my own. I stood there, frozen, my hands trembling, her pain a weight I could not shed, a burden I carried in every breath.

Three days ago, I had found her in the hallway, her back against the wall, tears streaming down her face as she stared at the locked door to the outside world. I approached cautiously, my heart pounding. "Amaira, can we talk, just for a moment?" She turned, her eyes blazing with rage, her body trembling with the effort to hold herself together. "Talk?" she spat, her voice thick with hate. "You think words can undo this? You trapped me here!" She pushed past me, her shoulder grazing mine, the brief contact burning like acid. I stood there, rooted, her anger leaving me hollow, her pain a wound I carried in silence, a scar that would never fade.

I scooped the khichdi onto a plate, steam curling upward in soft tendrils, and added a dollop of achar, its tangy scent grounding me in the moment. It was not about earning forgiveness, it was about offering a sliver of comfort, a small gesture to ease the suffocation of this prison I had created. I carried the plate upstairs, my footsteps hushed on the polished wood, each step heavy with the knowledge of her suffering. Outside her door, I knocked softly, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. No response came, as expected. I set the plate down, the ceramic clinking faintly against the hardwood. As I turned to leave, a creak stopped me. A delicate hand reached out from the cracked door, snatching the plate inside. A fragile smile tugged at my lips, a fleeting spark of hope. She was eating. It was a small victory, a flicker of light in a war I was losing.